


Things You Hate To Love

by lysscor



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, F/M, Hipster Newt, Hipsters, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, i hate him, seriously he's such a hipster douche
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:53:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5964631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysscor/pseuds/lysscor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas is the type of person who falls in love way too quickly and way too easily, and no amount of heartbreak can change that.<br/>Newt guards his heart fiercely, too damaged by his past to let anyone get close.<br/>Put these two together and throw a coffee shop, shitty romance novels, and Dutch rock bands into the mix, and it's a recipe for disaster.</p><p>Or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skipping Beats and Blushing Cheeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from:  
> Imogen Heap - Goodnight and Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo!
> 
> So this is the first fic I've ever uploaded. I've been writing them for years but have never had the courage to upload them - that is, until now. I figured it's about time.
> 
> The title is taken from the lyrics of Thieves and Murderers by Kensington (which is a great song by the way).
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_ “Because I love you!” _

_ There was a brief moment of stunned silence before they fell into each other’s arms, lips and bodies pressed together, hands clutching at each other desperately -  _

 

“And it sounded fucking stupid,” Newt muttered in exasperation. He ran a hand through his messy hair as he pressed down on the backspace key, watching the words disappear off the screen. It wasn’t right. After two hundred pages of dancing around each other, the first kiss was supposed to be big, dramatic, make the readers’ hearts race - not some dumb overused cliché that countless teenage girls had no doubt already written about various fictional characters.

He took off his glasses, setting them down on the table so he could rub his eyes. He rarely wore them - they made him look ridiculous, and even younger than he already did - but reading was impossible without them, and contacts burned his eyes if he was in front of his computer for too long. He leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes fall closed. His creative juices just weren’t flowing recently - he’d been stuck in this damn block for a couple weeks now, unable to get out more than a page or two of decent writing before his brain turned to mush. X Ambassadors blared in his headphones, which did little to ease his growing headache though he couldn’t be bothered to take them out.

_ Don’t think too much _ , his professor had told him.  _ Write as though no one will ever read it - and that includes yourself. _ Yeah right. Newt had the incurable and fatal weakness of  _ perfectionism _ . He couldn’t just  _ stop caring _ what his writing sounded like - no matter how hard he tried. And whenever he tried to “not think”, all that he could write was the type of shit a first grader could crank out. He sighed heavily, glaring at the screen as if it had personally offended him and wracking his brain for any other tips.

_ If you’re feeling stuck, change your surroundings. Go for a walk, or a drive or a train ride. Go somewhere you’ve never been, or somewhere you’re familiar with. Just find an environment that inspires you. _

Maybe that was what he needed to do. In the last few weeks, he hadn’t motivated himself to leave his cramped apartment for much other than class, walks with his golden retriever Lumos, and the occasional grocery run; that seemed like a viable reason for his inability to write anything halfway decent. He glanced at the time. Two thirty, on a Tuesday afternoon. He had time for a quick walk. Maybe he could even pick something up for dinner - his fridge was looking pretty sad. He could go to the library, buy a coffee, sit in his usual chair in the corner by the fireplace and write for a few hours until closing. On his way back he could stop at Sangster’s to pick up some groceries, or maybe just get something from one of the many food stands that littered the area.

Inspiration flooding through him, he saved his Word document, snapped his laptop shut and crammed it, a charger, and his beat up old notebook into a brown messenger bag. He pushed his glasses back onto his face, pulled on his coat and boots and was out the door before he could change his mind.

 

***

 

He’d changed his mind.

It was unusually cold for a January afternoon. The sharp kind of cold; the kind that made faces red and hands numb and breath come out in clouds. Newt tried to bury his face in the warmth of his jacket, but it didn’t do much good. He  _ really  _ wished he’d had the foresight to wear a scarf. Stupid moment of insane passion. If there was one thing Newt hated more than writer’s block, it was the cold. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

_ Focus on your surroundings _ , he heard his professor say.  _ Shut off your brain and let your internal writer do the thinking. _

He took a deep breath.  _ Shut off your brain _ . That couldn’t be too hard, could it? He let his eyes fall closed, and when he opened them again, the world was different. No longer was it grey and dreary and bitterly cold - it was brisk and snowy, the bright winter sky marred by clouds. Gone was the mopey, freezing, grumpy and unfriendly Newt. Now all he was just a boy - nameless, tall and blonde; head down against the crisp winter air but enjoying his day nonetheless. He narrated silently as he walked, the same way he would on paper.

_ The boy walked quickly, the cold air biting his face. Music blared in his headphones, loud enough to be heard by anyone who happened to walk past him - if there  _ had _ been anyone walking by. Despite being mid-afternoon, the street was nearly deserted other than him. _

(Not strictly true, but it made his internal monologue sound a lot better.)

_ Snow was falling lightly -  _ (read: assaulting Newt’s already cold face with a god damned blizzard)  _ \- sticking in his hair like dandruff -  _

Dandruff? Okay, gross. There was definitely a better simile than that.

_ Sticking in his hair like powdered sugar -  _

Really? Powdered sugar? Why would there be powdered sugar in his hair? He’d never baked a thing in his life.

_ Well maybe this character bakes. _

No. No powdered sugar. Was that really the best his brain could come up with? He tried again.

_ Sticking to his hair and coat, the white flakes like stars against the rough black material. He ran a hand through his soft blonde locks -  _ (he did no such thing - his hands were still deep in his pockets where they belonged, too cold to remove them under any circumstance) _ \- shaking the snow out. _

He continued in this way - narrating his every movement, describing his surroundings in detail, adding or changing minor elements to make his monologue more interesting, and arguing with himself over his stupid analogies - until the cold became almost unbearable. At one point, he was tempted to take his usual route to the library, his normal writing sanctuary - he even had his own chair and everything - but he heard his professor’s voice in his mind telling him to  _ change his surroundings _ and instead turned left, headed downtown.

An hour later, he was severely regretting this decision. He was still walking, the cold more harsh than ever. His ears were so cold it hurt - why the hell hadn’t he brought a hat? - his toes were going numb, and his shoulder ached where the strap of his messenger bag dug into his flesh. All he wanted was to find someplace warm to sit and write.

There  _ had _ to be a coffee shop nearby. Any other time, there was a Starbucks around every corner, but of course when he was freezing his ass off there wasn’t a single Buck of Star in sight. Typical. He looked around, searching for a café, a diner -  _ something _ . He’d even settle for a fast food restaurant at this point, as long as they sold coffee and allowed him to sit in a corner and write for the foreseeable future - and free Wi-Fi was always appreciated. Although he’d starve to death before eating any of the processed, capitalistic, grease-coated crap they called food. And to be perfectly honest, he would much prefer a café. Someplace with soft brown walls and dim lighting and  comfy armchairs near a fireplace. Someplace that wouldn’t be overcrowded or noisy, and would have a strong smell of coffee. Someplace like.. like…

_ Someplace like that. _

He almost didn’t notice it - the first sign that this place was his soulmate of cafés. It was small and unassuming, nestled on the corner between a thrift shop and an old bookstore. The outer walls were a simple red brick; the door a dark wood carved with elegant patterns. A simple sign hung from an intricate golden bracket, the words  _ Aroma Borealis: Coffee and Tea _ written in old-fashioned calligraphic script. The metro station was just down the street, and a right turn led back to the main downtown area, so most people walked right on by without sparing the coffee shop so much as a second glance. Everyone was too preoccupied rushing about their own busy afternoons to pay much notice to the small café on the corner. It was like it was invisible; in a world entirely of its own. A peaceful vintage sanctuary in the midst of a modern jungle of a city.

Newt was in love.

It didn’t take long for him to cross the street and enter the shop, a little bell above the door announcing his arrival. It was even better inside. The first thing he noticed was the lighting. The café was lit mainly by the waning sunlight filtering through the front window; the only electrical light came from the old-fashioned bronze chandelier in the center of the room, and the string of fairy lights that danced around the perimeter of the room near the ceiling. The lights, combined with the pale brown walls, gave the place a very charming, cozy feeling.

To the left of the door was a claw-footed coat and hat rack; to the right were three tall chairs in front of a ledge at the window sill, forming a sort of long table almost to the wall. There were three other tables around the room, each made of the same dark wood as the door. In the corner were a couple of overstuffed armchairs next to a stone fireplace, and there was a tall bookshelf against the wall absolutely overflowing with books. The rest of the shop was taken up by an outdated counter.

It was made of wood, with a string of fairy lights twinkling around it. A glass display presented various baked goods, and there was a handwritten chalk menu board advertising a variety of food and drink. The entire place was elegant and homely and absolutely beautiful - but it wasn’t what made Newt’s breath catch in his throat or his heart pound as though he’d just run a marathon. No,  _ that _ was due to the barista.

He looked about Newt’s age, maybe a year or two younger, with a mop of messy brown hair that fell in his face, partly obscuring his eyes. He was leaning against the counter holding a book that had definitely seen better days, and he was smiling faintly at whatever he was reading. His white t-shirt clung to his body in all the right places, accentuating the curves of the muscles in his arms and back. 

In short, he was stunning.

Which almost definitely meant he was a total asshole. Newt knew this guy’s type - heartwrenchingly attractive with a perfect body and a gorgeous smile, and an ego the size of Texas. Based on his highly toned arms and intentionally disheveled hair, Newt’s guess was that he’d been captain of the football team (American football, not  _ soccer _ as they insisted on calling it here) in high school, newly graduated, probably a freshman at the university more interested in parties and alcohol than his education. He probably had some kind of sports scholarship or rich parents, so- unlike Newt - hadn’t had to work his ass off to get to university; thought he was the best thing to ever grace this earth with his presence, and woke up with a new girl every weekend.

Like Newt said, total asshole.

But then the boy looked up, and he did a double take - he  _ actually _ did a double take, like he was surprised to see a customer - and when his face split into a grin Newt’s knees went weak. Forget skipping beats - Newt was pretty sure his heart had stopped altogether. And breathing - what was breathing? Newt sure as hell didn’t know. His lungs had forgotten how to be lungs, and his brain had forgotten how to be a brain. The only coherent thought he could seem to form was  _ shit _ .

“Hey!” the barista exclaimed, dog-earing his page (God, that  _ physically _ hurt Newt - attractive or not, who could do that to a book?) and setting his beat up paperback on the counter. “Welcome to Aroma Borealis. What can I get for you?”

Shit.

Oh  _ shit _ .

Newt was in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt is such a hipster douche. I'm sorry. I had no intention of making him that awful (what with his "capitalistic, grease-coated crap they called food". Seriously. He needs to find his chill.) but it kind of suits him so I'll see what happens.
> 
> I don't have a beta reader (but if you're interested in fulfilling that role my email is lysscor@gmail.com ;D) so sorry for any bluh factor. Also, sorry it's so short - it looked a lot longer on paper, I swear.  
> There will be more dialogue and less monologue in the next couple chapters but I always struggle with first chapters - introductions and all that.
> 
> Loved it? Hated it? Either way, comments are greatly appreciated!  
> Until next time!


	2. Your First Impression's Got To Be Your Very Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title:  
> Trapt - Headstrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been....... almost a year........ since i posted the first chapter............ but hey, at least this one's kind of long? And I've got the entire next one planned out so maybe I won't take eleven months and five days to post that one.

Thomas was not expecting anyone to enter the coffee shop today.

 

One of the downsides to working at a hole-in-the-wall café in a city where there was a Starbucks around every corner - business wasn’t exactly booming. Honestly, it was a wonder the place hadn’t gone bankrupt already. Boredom was never slow to set in, and Thomas had lost count of all the cakes and pastries he had to throw out every day after hours of no one buying them. And though it didn’t make for very engaging shifts - or incredible pay - at least it gave Thomas a few hours of nearly uninterrupted reading every day.

The café bookshelves were  _ packed _ with books of every shape, size, colour and genre imaginable. There were romance novels, crime and mystery, manga and comic books, nonfiction, children’s books - even a couple in different languages. For someone like Thomas, who’d spent his whole life surrounded by literature and loved nothing more than a good book, the place was practically heaven.

Late afternoons were his favourite shifts. Outside, cars and people bustled past, arms full of shopping bags, phones to their ears, talking and laughing as they made their way home from work or the store or a date. Not inside. Inside, it was quiet and peaceful. It felt isolated; cut off from the rest of the world. White strings of Christmas lights twinkled around the room, and the waning sunlight filtering through the window hit the tables in a way that was almost angelic. Thomas was able to sit back in his own little sanctuary and idly watch life rush by, or to lose himself in a book in the blissful silence. It was perfect.

Now, late on a Sunday afternoon, Thomas was leaning against the sunlit counter, reading one of his favourite books - S.E. Hinton’s  _ The Outsiders _ . He’d read it so many times that his paperback copy was looking rather sad - pages having been bent and unbent so many times they looked to be on the brink of tearing; the writing on the spine nearly illegible through the faded white lines of being opened countless times; the cover holding on for dear life with the help of a generous amount of medical tape - but that didn’t stop him from taking in every word as though he was thirteen again, sitting on his bedroom floor and reading it for the first time.

In fact, he was so immersed in the story that he didn’t even hear the bell above the door. It wasn’t until he began to feel a tingle on the back of his neck, as though someone was watching him, that he finally looked up.

 

Thomas was not expecting anyone to enter the coffee shop today.

Thomas was  _ definitely _ not expecting the most gorgeous human being he’d ever had the good fortune to lay eyes upon to enter the coffee shop today.

 

He looked like a model - lean and elegant and ridiculously tall, with long blonde hair and a  _ killer  _ jawline. Seriously, he could cut glass with that jaw. Even from a distance Thomas could tell the boy’s skin was sinfully smooth and pale, like a porcelain doll. His face was flushed red from the cold and snow clung to his hair and clothes. With the sun shining behind him like a natural spotlight, he looked like an angel. A literal angel. Thomas was actually fairly certain he saw wings and a halo, but that was probably because he was functioning on about three hours of sleep and six cups of coffee (college was hard).

Thomas blinked a couple times to regain his composure, then gave the boy his signature winning smile. “Hey!” he said, hoping it came across and friendly and maybe a bit flirty, as opposed to his obligatory polite ‘customer voice’. “Welcome to  _ Aroma Borealis _ . What can I get for you?”

“Um.” The guy - who had taken a couple hesitant steps closer to the counter at Thomas’ greeting - was staring at Thomas’ book with a pained expression. This close up, Thomas could see the snow even dusted his eyelashes - which were, he noted, beautifully long, and framed the most incredible eyes Thomas had ever seen. After a moment, the blonde blinked, gave his head a small shake and brought his eyes up to meet Thomas’ for a brief second before they flickered up to the menu board. He squinted up at it, a slight frown marring his features. 

“I can’t see a bloody thing,” he mumbled. His voice was thick with an accent Thomas couldn’t quite identify (British maybe? He’d never been good with accents) and tinged with annoyance. “I’ll have a medium cappuccino I guess. Double espresso.” His gaze flicked downward, skimming over Thomas to grimace at the paperback on the counter. “You should really take better care of your book.”

Thomas blinked.  _ What the hell? _ “Uh. Yeah. Thanks for the suggestion, I guess.” 

He was trying hard not to be offended. Okay, yeah,  _ maybe _ the book had seen better days but it  _ had _ seen a hell of a lot of days. He’d like to see this guy keep a book in pristine condition after reading it about a million times over the course of six and a half years. Besides, how did he even know it was Thomas’ book? Maybe he was borrowing it from a friend who didn’t take care of it, or maybe it belonged to the café.

(It didn’t, of course, but this man had _no way of knowing_ _that_.)

Thomas didn’t say any of this though. After all, maybe the blond was just trying to joke around. Make friendly conversation.

“It wasn’t really a suggestion - more a criticism. But take it how you will.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, looking towards the ceiling with a bored expression. “How much do I owe you?”

Thomas’ eyebrow twitched.  _ Definitely not friendly conversation. _

This guy was so… abrupt. His clipped tone and perpetual frown made him seem extremely pissed off, while his upturned chin and cool, calculating eyes gave him an almost regal air. He seemed to exude a kind of quiet intelligence, like he was used to observing everything but saying nothing. It was honestly kind of intimidating.

Tearing his eyes away from the blonde, Thomas told him the price, and the boy pulled out what looked like a wallet from the pocket of his long black coat. It was really just a folded up piece of leather with bits of paper of varying shapes, sizes and colours pasted over every face. Some were blank, but most had words on them - some handwritten, some typed, all in various fonts and sizes.

“Cool wallet,” Thomas said before he could stop himself.

“Yeah.” The blonde handed him a ten dollar bill, not so much as looking at him. Thomas felt a surge of annoyance. ‘Yeah’? That was it? No ‘thank you’? No smile? Not even eye contact?

“Where’d you get it?” Thomas pressed. 

“Made it. Are you going to give me my change or not?”

Thomas gritted his teeth, a burst of irritation flaring up in his chest. “Of course.” He put the bill in the register and handed back a handful of coins, his obligatory smile extremely forced.

The blonde disinterestedly put it and his wallet back into his pocket. “I’ll be over there,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards the corner with the fireplace.

Thomas started up the espresso machine with much more force than was necessary, frustration and attraction warring for dominance inside his brain as he grabbed a porcelain mug from under the counter. He’d met countless guys - and girls - like him before. They seemed to be the only ones who came into  _ Aroma Borealis _ \- cool and unapproachable, with great fashion sense and even greater superiority complexes. The type of people who listened to obscure bands no one’s heard of, only bought clothes from thrift shops, shunned anything invented in the last ten years, somehow managed to look fashionable in styles that everyone else had retired over a decade ago, and - most importantly - looked down on anyone who didn’t share their very artistic worldly views. In short, a Class-A Hipster Douchebag™

Thomas knew from experience this guy would never give him the time of day -

**_Exhibit A:_ ** Clint and Jeff from his high school photography class, who would simply give him scornful looks whenever he would try to talk to them 

\- and that, even if he would, he wasn’t the type of person Thomas even wanted to associate with - 

**_Exhibit B:_ ** Teresa, his girlfriend of nearly three years who would constantly bemoan the patriarchy and failing economy and wouldn’t let Thomas hold doors open for her because it was misogynistic (how exactly, Thomas still wasn’t sure), until she cheated on him with some douche named Aris who drank organic coffee and meditated twice a day. 

 

Yes, Thomas knew from experience  _ exactly _ what type of guy this gorgeous blond was. He also knew that logically, being attracted to him could only end one way - badly. 

But then, Thomas never had been a very logical person.

Which is why, two minutes later, he found himself putting more effort than he would care to admit making artful swirls in the cappuccino foam. He placed the cup on a small saucer with an almond biscotti on the side and, quite satisfied with his work, made his way to where the blonde was sitting. 

He’d made himself comfortable in an overstuffed armchair beside the fire, his long legs draped over one of the chair’s arms and a battered leather-bound notebook propped open on his knees. He was wearing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and tapping a pen against his chin, his eyes scanning over the page in front of him. He’d discarded his coat, which now lay on another chair underneath an open messenger bag, and was wearing a loose gray sweater with “ _ exit, pursued by a bear” _ written in small lettering across the chest.

“Your coffee,” Thomas said.

The man didn’t look up, simply nodding and mumbling “On the table.”

Thomas obliged. “I like your sweater.”

“Mmm.”

“Shakespeare, right?  _ The Winter’s Tale _ ?”

“Yeah.” He did glance up at that, a look of surprise crossing his face before his eyes flicked back down to his notebook. “You’ve read it?”

Thomas snorted. “Of course I have. It’s not as good as  _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream _ , obviously, but - ”

“ _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream _ is buggin’ overrated. Almost as much as  _ Romeo and Juliet _ .”

“I have to disagree on that one. _ Romeo and Juliet _ is garbage, but  _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream _ is a masterpiece.”

The blonde was shaking his head before Thomas was even done speaking. “No. No. Definitely not. The entire play is a bloody mess, and the only good part is Puck’s monologue at the end.”

Thomas grinned. “‘If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended,’” he quoted.

“‘That you have but slumbered here while these visions did appear.’” He looked up, making eye contact with Thomas for what felt like the first time. “You have that memorized?” He sounded almost impressed. Thomas flushed with pride.

“Of course. I was Puck in my high school’s performance of the play.”

He grinned, a mischievous lopsided grin that made Thomas’ heart skip. “You were in a high school play? Seriously? How lame is that?”

The comment stung a little - Thomas was quite proud of his high school acting career - but he tried not to let it show. “It’s not lame. Musicals are lame.”

“Musicals  _ are _ bloody lame, but that doesn’t make high school productions of Shakespeare any less so.” His impish smile never fading, he returned to his notebook. After staring at it for a moment, he crossed something out, chewed the end of the pen for a moment, and started writing. From this angle, Thomas could see that nearly the entire page was filled with cramped, messy writing. So many words were crossed out or scrawled into the margins that it was barely legible.  His hand flew across the page at a speed that made Thomas understand just why his writing was so untidy.

“What are you writing?” Thomas asked. 

The blond didn’t answer at first, his pen still scratching away at the paper. Finally, without looking up, he said, “A story.”

“For a class?”

“No.”

“So are you an author?”

“Something like that.”

“Something like that?”

“Something like that.”

From the growing exasperation in his voice, it was clear the conversation was over. Thomas was disappointed - he would have loved to talk more with this interesting man - but he knew not to linger where he wasn’t wanted. “I’ll be at the till if you need anything,” he said. The blond gave him a curt, almost dismissive nod, not looking up from his writing, and Thomas trudged back to the counter, feeling rather ousted.

The rest of the afternoon passed rather uneventfully. Thomas read. The man in the chair wrote. Thomas swept the floors. The man in the chair wrote. Thomas wiped counters that really didn’t need to be wiped. The man in the chair wrote. Thomas reorganized the bookshelf for the umpteenth time. The man in the chair wrote. Not once did he get up from his spot. He didn’t speak, and he hardly even moved. At one point, he threw his head back and groaned in exasperation. He sat like that - eyes closed, hand over his face, leaning so far back over the arm of the chair it looked like his spine might snap - for so long that Thomas started to grow concerned. But before he could ask if he was okay, the blond sighed, ripped a page out of his notebook, and went back to writing. After that, he was still and mostly silent save for the scratching and tapping of his pen and the occasional frustrated sigh.

Over the course of those hours, Thomas found his eyes drawn to the blond far more than he would care to admit. He was glad the other man barely looked up from his notebook; he might have died of embarassment if he’d been caught staring. But he couldn’t look away - there was just something about him that captivated Thomas. The way his eyes would sometimes light up and he would start to write faster than seemed humanly possible. The way he would impatiently flick his hair back when it fell in his face. The way he would pause every now and then and squint at the paper or stare into space, his lips moving silently and rapidly. The way his facial expressions changed, presumably mirroring the emotions invoked in his writing. It was mesmerizing. Thomas felt like he was watching something incredibly personal - and incredibly ethereal. 

Aroma Borealis officially closed at six o’clock, but since Thomas was the only one on shift and he didn’t want to see the writer leave, he said nothing. It wasn’t until seven thirty that Thomas decided he really ought to get home and he reluctantly walked over to the armchair in the corner. 

“Hey,” he said, picking up the mug and the plate from where they rested on the table. They were both empty, which was odd - he hadn’t noticed the man so much as look at his coffee, much less drink it. 

The blond gave no signs of noticing him, his pen flying across the page.

Thomas cleared his throat. “Look man, I’m sorry to interrupt you like this but I was actually supposed to close up an hour ago, so I’m gonna have to kick you out for tonight.”

Still nothing. It was like he hadn’t even heard Thomas - or he was ignoring him.

“Hey - ” he put a hand on the other man’s shoulder, hoping to get his attention.

The blonde jerked as though electrocuted. When he looked up, his brown eyes were puzzled and strangely unfocused. “Sorry - what did you say?” Bemused, Thomas repeated himself; the blond’s eyes went wide and he quickly glanced at his phone. “What time - oh bloody hell.” He groaned, quickly gathering his things back into his bag. “I can’t believe it’s so late. Sorry for sticking around so bloody long - I completely lost track of time.”

“It’s no problem,” Thomas assured him. “You looked like you got a lot of writing done.”

The man wrinkled his nose. “A bit. Nothing to celebrate.”

“You don’t think it’s good?”

“Not in the slightest.” He stood from his chair and Thomas was again stricken by how tall he was. He pulled on his coat and slung his bag over his shoulder, wincing as he stretched his back. “I best be off then. Places to be and whatnot.”

“Yeah of course.” Thomas forced down the disappointment welling in his chest. He knew it was stupid, but he really didn’t want the man to leave. “Feel free to come back tomorrow,” he blurted before he could stop himself. The man raised an eyebrow, and Thomas felt his face heat up. Could he sound any more desperate? “I mean - if you want -- ”

“Can’t get enough of me, can you Tommy?”

Confusion cut through his mortification. “How did you know my name?”

“You’ve got a name tag.” He grinned cheekily and turned to walk away. “I’ll see you, Tommy.”

He was nearly to the door when Thomas found his voice again. “Can I ask your name?”

“You can ask.”

“Will you tell me?”

“Nope.”

 

And with that he was gone, leaving a gust of cold air and the chiming of a bell behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thaaaaat's a thing. I can't really decide whether to base Newt's appearance on movie Newt or book Newt, so I guess it's kind of a combination? Also hey I suck at dialogue but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> So how it be? Comments fuel me and constructive criticism is always, always, ALWAYS appreciated.
> 
> Also hey hey hey last thing: if anyone wants to be my beta reader/editor/person to make me get my ass in gear and actually work on this damn story so I don't take a year to write the next chapter, my email is lysscor@gmail.com


	3. Something Cynical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from:  
> Dreams of Cannibalism - Typhoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy it's a thing. I'm not really sure how I feel about this chapter tbh but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

(4:16 pm) i just saw the most gorgeous man i have ever had the fortune to lay eyes on

 

(10:38 pm) minho i think i’m in love

(10:45 pm) granted he kind of seems like a dick but

(10:45 pm) he’s hot

(10:47 pm) and he likes shakespeare???? literally no one likes shakespeare thats so cool

_ (10:49 pm) dude im literally in the next room why r u texting me _

(10:50 pm) i’m too busy staring at the ceiling like a teenage girl in a romance movie to come to your room

_ (10:51 pm) ur such a loser _

 

(12:26 am) i didn’t even get his name

 

(2:15 am) i mean i’ll probably never see him again

(2:30 am) shit dude what if i never see him again?

_ (2:33 am) go the fuck to sleep _

 

***

  
  
  


It was dark out by the time Newt got home, covered in snow and completely exhausted. He dropped his bag and coat by the door, not bothering to hang them, kicked off his shoes and collapsed face-first on the couch. He groaned into the cushion - his bad leg was aching something awful from all that walking. It was always worse when it was cold out. He really should have taken the bus back.

He’d barely brought his legs up on the couch behind him when a cold, wet nose pressed up against his cheek, sniffing excitedly. He smiled and reached out a hand to scratch the dog behind her ear. “Hey, Lumos,” he mumbled. “How was your day?” 

She didn’t reply, of course; merely wagged her tail and put her paws on his shoulder. He laughed softly, rolling onto his back to give her space to climb up on top of him.

Lumos had been just a puppy when he got her - a graduation-slash-moving-away gift from his mother. She, an avid Harry Potter fan like her son, was the one who’d picked the name. It was symbolic, she’d said. The dog would be there to help him through his bad times - a light in the darkness. She’d told him Lumos was to keep him from getting lonely, but he knew the real reason - to give him something to take care of, a responsibility over a life that wasn’t his own. She knew that if there was another life depending on his, it would give him a reason to take care of himself.

He understood her concern - he knew he’d given her plenty reason to worry about him in the past - but even so, he was against it at first. He was going to be busy enough with school as it was; he didn’t need the extra responsibility. Besides, he could take care of himself just fine. He wasn’t seventeen anymore; he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. At least, not again. But when he made the move from Cardiff to Ontario, he realised just how lonely it was to be so far from home. Though he talked to his mother and sister on the phone as often as possible, he still felt more alone than he ever had - and that's saying something. He soon grew to depend on Lumos as much as she depended on him and he loved her more than anything else. These days, she was probably his only friend.

He sighed, absently tangling his fingers in the long fur of her neck. He really hadn’t gotten as much writing done today as he’d planned, and none of what he  _ had _ gotten down had been serious - just another of the side-story drabbles he turned to whenever he was feeling blocked. Despite the wonderfully inspiring environment Aroma Borealis had presented him with, he’d been so distracted by the attractive barista that he found himself continually straying from his characters and instead describing in detail the way the sun hit Thomas’ brown hair, or the way the muscles in his back flexed as he swept, or how he would absently drum his fingers on the counter when he was reading. It was annoying.

Still, he couldn’t deny how  _ comfortable  _ he’d felt. Sitting in that overstuffed armchair, sipping his coffee, his pen spewing word vomit all over his page while the late-afternoon sun shone through the window, casting a warm glow over the room… He’d never felt so at home. It was wonderful. It was wonderful and peaceful and beautiful and he wanted to go back and never leave. Maybe he’d actually get some writing done next time. Maybe he’d read one of the books that had been on the shelf - he was pretty sure he’d seen Chaucer somewhere in the jumble of author’s names. 

And maybe… maybe he’d be able to talk more with Thomas.

Not because he was interested in him, of course. The thought was almost laughable. That would  _ never _ happen. Sure, he was attractive, but he was so not Newt’s type - not that he had a type. That would imply he was actually looking for a relationship, which he most definitely was  _ not _ . He knew better than anyone that relationships could only end in pain. Besides, Thomas was probably straight. It would just be a bad idea to get feelings mixed up in this.

Not that there  _ was _ a “this”. Obviously.

Newt just wanted to talk to him - Thomas seemed like a remarkably intriguing person. Newt had never met anyone who’d recognized his sweater as Shakespeare, much less who could give real opinions on any of Shakespeare’s works (other than  _ Macbeth  _ or  _ Hamlet  _ or  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , of course). He wanted to know what Thomas thought of  _ Othello  _ and  _ Measure for Measure _ ; if he liked Oscar Wilde or thought he was overrated; whether he preferred Tennyson or Wordsworth. He wanted to know who his favourite band was, and his favourite colour, and if he’d read any of S.E. Hinton’s other works - Newt hadn’t missed that Thomas had been reading The Outsiders, no matter how poor the book’s condition had been. He wanted to talk to him about the universe and reality and infinity and -

And he was getting ahead of himself. Just because Thomas had known  _ A Winter’s Tale _ and  _ Midsummer Night’s Dream _ didn’t mean he was a classic literature connoisseur. He probably only knew them because of the high school play he’d mentioned. And even if he  _ did _ like Shakespeare and Tennyson, that said nothing about his personality. He was probably one of those pretentious hipsters who thought they were  _ so cultured _ just because they could recite “Ulysses.” Besides, there was no guarantee Newt would ever see him again - even if he did go back to the coffee shop, there was no telling if Thomas would be on shift again, or if he would want to talk to Newt at all.

He groaned, making Lumos lift her head and look at him questioningly. He was being ridiculous, he knew it. It wasn’t a big deal. Getting all concerned about the future with Thomas was just stupid considering there was absolutely  _ no future with Thomas _ . He was just some guy who worked at a coffee shop - he meant absolutely nothing to Newt, and Newt meant absolutely nothing to him. And it would stay that way. 

Hell, he’d probably never even see him again.

 

***

 

He saw him again. The next day, no less. Newt felt a bit foolish walking into Aroma Borealis for the second time in as many days - at least he’d been smart enough to take the bus this time; his leg was still killing him despite having downed several Aspirins - and Thomas’ look of surprised recognition did little to abate his embarrassment.  _ I’m only here to write _ , he told himself as he limped up to the counter.  _ It has nothing to do with wanting to see Thomas _ .

“Hello again,” grinned the barista, making Newt’s heart do a little backflip. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“What can I say - I missed your pretty face.” Wow, okay, did he really just say that?

Thankfully, Thomas had a sense of humour; he clutched his chest theatrically, fanning himself with the other hand. “Be still my beating heart - he thinks I’m pretty!” 

Newt laughed at that, the knot in his chest loosening some. “Tell me, do you remember all your customers or should I feel special?”

“Just the attractive British ones - so yes, I’d say you’re special.” And there was that smile again, the one that made Newt’s heart jump into his throat. An irrational pang of annoyance shot through him. Thomas couldn’t just  _ say _ stuff like that, all nonchalant with a damn cocky smile. The bastard.

“I’m Welsh, actually.” Newt said, casually not addressing the ‘attractive’ comment. “And as riveting as this conversation is, people generally come to coffee shops to get coffee, and while I’m the exception to many things, that is not one of them.”

“Right, of course.” He smiled sheepishly, blush creeping across his cheeks. “Sorry. Minho’s always telling me I don’t know when to shut up. Medium cappuccino, right?”

“You remembered my order as well as my face? How sweet.” He said it as mockingly as possible to hide the embarrassing fact that there was some truth in the statement - it was strangely flattering that he’d made enough of an impression on the barista that he remembered his order. Which was stupid.

“Oh, slim it.” Thomas was already starting up the espresso machine, his blush darkening. Newt tried to ignore how cute that was. “You can pay later if you want - I’ll bring it over to you.”

“Sure. Thanks, Tommy.”

On his way to the corner he took off his coat, revealing his white Neutral Milk Hotel t-shirt. He was almost embarrassed to admit that he’d chosen it that morning specifically because he wanted Thomas to see it. While he did like the shirt, it was also his subtle way of asking the other if he knew the band (without actually asking him, of course). 

Newt had just got himself settled in the armchair with his notebook when he heard Thomas’ voice behind him. “Your coffee, my good gentleman,” he said in an exaggeratedly posh British accent, bowing at the waist like an old-fashioned butler. 

Newt rolled his eyes, but couldn’t fight the smile that tugged on the corners of his lips. “Why thank you, Thomas,” he said, mimicking the other’s smooth tones. “I shall enjoy this immensely.”

“Indeed, sir.” He straightened and grinned, placing the mug on the same table. He nodded at the notebook. “I suppose I’ll leave you to your writing then.”

Disappointment rose in Newt’s chest, but he quickly pushed it back. That was ridiculous - he’d come here to write, hadn’t he? “Right. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Thomas grinned, walking backwards towards the counter. “Oh, and by the way -  _ Avery Island _ .”

Newt blinked. “What?”

“Your sweater.  _ On Avery Island  _ is their best album by far.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and smiled sheepishly. “I mean, all of their albums are pretty good but none hold a candle to  _ Avery Island _ . How can you compare anything to  _ Song Against Sex _ ?”

With that, he gave a little wave and turned to walk away. Newt buried his face in his notebook to hide the foolish grin that had spread across his face. So Thomas  _ did _ know them. And he knew them well enough to have opinions on their albums, even if his opinions were completely wrong. Newt was slightly baffled by how exciting that was but then again, he hadn’t ever met anyone who liked his type of literature  _ and _ listened to his type of music. And Thomas was attractive to boot. 

He spared a glance at the barista, who was wiping the counter with a cloth, the fingers of his other hand tapping absently against the wooden surface. His arms were really something to look at. And Newt couldn’t help but stare at his artfully (douchey) tousled hair and cute button nose (seriously, how could a nose be so adorable? It was just ridiculous) and the smattering of moles across his jaw. 

As if he could feel Newt’s eyes on him, Thomas looked up. Newt hastily averted his gaze, face flushing. The next time he looked, Thomas was smiling slightly.

He was sure that didn’t mean anything.

 

Newt didn’t get any more writing done that day than he had the day before; nor did he talk to Thomas after that first conversation. Somehow he wasn’t too bothered. Just being in Thomas’ presence made him feel warm all over. Which the logical part of him knew was actually a really,  _ really _ bad thing and was reason enough to run from the coffee shop and never look back, but somehow - he didn’t really want to.

Before he left, he scrawled a note on a piece of paper torn out of his notebook and left it under his long-empty coffee mug:

_ In The Aeroplane Over The Sea _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to WeAreKindaCrazyLikeThat for editing for me even though I took eight BILLION YEARS to write it lmao
> 
> So. I've actually kind of lost interest in this fic? I'm just not quite sure where I'm going with it and I've got some other stuff I've been working on so I might abandon this for a bit and come back to it in a few months. I've got half of the next chapter done so I might try to finish it but no promises aaa


End file.
